


Go away. I'm fine

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: section7mfu, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya tries to recover alone





	Go away. I'm fine

**Short Affair Challenge August 28 (Bottle. Orange)**

**Go away, I’m fine**

It was good to be home - small, frugal, badly furnished, but sufficient for all his needs. And he was alone. He could give in to the discomfort.

He sank down on the couch, shivering a little. The effects of the drugs Vallandros’ men had injected him with were insidious. He felt washed out and stupefied still. His partner had been reluctant to leave him – he always knew when something was wrong. He’d mother him like a baby if he were ever allowed to. 

At least he knew his own name, and was starting to remember more. Memories of that incarceration were troubling. He’d rather forget. Think of something else. His partner protecting him from the blast, lifting his helpless body up towards escape, his hand pulling him up the steps. Think of something else.

He should show more gratitude. His partner never demanded thanks. Did he recognise what the reticence concealed? – a reluctance to let go and give way to emotion? – a terror of revealing himself? Those drugs had broken him when he had nothing to give.

He had known nothing of value, and yet they persisted till he wept and begged to be … Think of something else. Have a drink.

He got to his feet and walked a little unsteadily into the kitchen, found the bottle and returned with it to the couch, a glass in his other hand – a concession to proper, controlled behaviour. After two glasses he felt very sick, and stopped. Couldn’t even use alcohol to forget. Think of something else.

Poetry. He once more struggled to his feet and went to the overflowing bookcase. Pushkin, that was it, that would do. He focussed on the blur in front of him – oh, no, not the death of Lensky. He put it down. Just for once, he needed something light. Or maybe something pure and crystalline to fight off the wild and savage jungle of human existence. An unsolved theorem in maths. Fermat’s theorem for instance. He looked round at the bookcase. Where would that be among the shelves? But the act of turning his head made him feel so bad, he had to lie down.

His head was spinning. Couldn’t sit up, sick. Oh God, an image of Vallandros filled his mind. His shouting, his constant shouting, that sweater… that orange sweater, stinking of sweat. Oh God, I feel so sick. His hands to his face, he was sobbing like a child.

A noise; a soft footstep. “Hey, hey,” said a voice. “It’s all right, I’m here.”

He’d come back, worried about him. How did he always know? Show some gratitude! Tell him! But he could only turn away.

“Go away. I’m fine,” he wept into the cushions.

“I know you are. But I had to check – sorry to disturb you.” The footsteps moved away.

“No! Don’t go! … Please… Don’t go.”

“I’m only in the kitchen. There’s some soup here, I’ll heat it up.”

The tears continued to flow but his body began to relax. Why was he so afraid of revealing himself to this man? He trusted him with his life, why not his mind?

Strong arms helped him into a sitting position. “Here, you’ll feel better with some of this inside you.”

“Thank you. For coming back.” He looked up into concerned eyes.

“Are you ill?” asked his friend anxiously.

*****************************

 


End file.
